


A Waltz on All Soul's Night

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-27
Updated: 2008-10-27
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <i>The Celts believed that Halloween was called Samhain. It was the day where the line between our world and the spirit world was most blurred. Spirits, ghosts, ghouls, and demons could pass freely from one side to the other. They would destroy crops or play tricks. Thing is, humans could easily get whisked into the spirit world! They dressed up as beings of the spirit world so as to blend in and to avoid having tricks played on them. Pete is a trickster from the spirit world! Patrick is an Irish boy!</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Waltz on All Soul's Night

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a song by Loreena McKennitt: [**All Souls Night**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-qQHlWkSM_o), which was suggested for mood-music & inspiration.

Scuttling.

Patrick knew _all_ about scuttling, and he knew that he did it, a lot. He figured that he had a very deep understanding of how crabs felt. He'd been going back and forth all fucking day, since about five in the morning, his cell-phone literally glued to his ear as he made sure the decorations were arranged right, the beverages ordered were chilled properly and that the waiters looked as if they knew what they were doing, and _not flirting with his boss oh my god Jon_.

" _Relax_ , Stump," Joe said with a long sigh, spreading the black table-cloth on one of the tables placed outside as Patrick glared at Will and Jon. Will had the good grace to look chastened, and rushed away to do something or the other, or at least pretend to. Jon just gave Patrick a wide, easy smile and ambled off in the opposite direction. At least he wasn't wearing his flip-flops. Patrick would have had his head for that.

Patrick returned to the clipboard resting on his left forearm, checking his list for about the fourth time in as many minutes, muttering over each of the items with all the anxiety of a mother hen counting off her chicks.

Joe sighed again, putting a candle in the center of the table. Patrick marched over and pushed it a little to the right. Joe rolled his eyes. "Dude, everything is going to go alright."

"You know that law, the one about Murphy?" Patrick bit at one side of his bottom lip and flipped to another page on his clipboard.

"Who, Robocop?" Joe said with a grin, smoothing out the material of the tablecloth. Patrick shook his head, running his finger down the lines of his own loopy handwriting.

"No. Murphy's Law. If something can go wrong, it _will_." Patrick looked up at Joe; he had _seen_ Joe out of the corner of his eye, over there mouthing the words as Patrick said them (and he said them all the time, so what; it was _true_ ), but Joe gave him a wide gaze that strove for innocent and failed on a massive level. Patrick squinted at him warningly, ticking off an item from his list; the DJ was here already, setting up in the gazebo, his assistants running cables to large speakers nearby. Patrick made a note to tell them to make sure the cables were out of the way of the main pathways, so that people wouldn't trip over them with drunken clumsiness.

Gabe, their client, was leaning against the white wooden railing, laughing in his coarse way as Travis, the DJ, told him something with a big grin. This birthday-slash-Halloween party for the spoilt scion of the Saporta family was one of the biggest the Event Academy had taken on. Patrick was _exhausted_ , and the party hadn't even started as yet. Even Will, who usually swanned in and out of the office while Patrick laboured grimly, found himself working on little gift-boxes shaped as pumpkins under Patrick's watchful eye.

Sometimes, Patrick thought that it was a little sad that every party he'd gone to in the past two years had been events he had been overseeing; but most of his life was caught up in running around after caterers, yelling at fireworks' specialists and arguing with the printers over a typo in the invitations. He didn't have time to party. So, obviously, those who couldn't party, planned.

"Ok, we need to check the bonfire stacks, make sure they're okay."

"I did that already," Joe pointed out. "And Andy checked them _again_ ," Joe continued hurriedly as Patrick opened his mouth. Patrick considered this and nodded; Andy was almost as anal as he was about getting everything right. He was over by the dessert table right now, putting the little cupcakes in a line straight enough to please any army general.

"Okay. Okay," Patrick breathed and set his shoulders straight, heading off in Gabe's direction. Joe rolled his eyes at Patrick's back, and just to be contrary, moved the little candle off-center again.

"Hey, _chiquillo_ ," Gabe rasped at him as he got close, slinging a long arm around Patrick's shoulders. Patrick smiled tightly up at him; Gabe had exclaimed over him the first time he'd come to the office for a consultation, saying that they were hired just because: 'this little dude is so _cute_! I can put him in my pocket, man, just put him right in my pocket and take him home! Can I?"

"Well, if you really want to," Will had purred; Gabe had sent back a feral grin and then laughed at Patrick's scowl.

"How is my favourite party-planner?" Gabe was asking now, one hand at the back of Patrick's neck, warm fingers pressed to his skin and rubbing slightly. "Hey, guess what: I'm ready to party. And you have to promise to dance with me, _promise_."

"Oh, we're not allowed to dance with the clients or their guests, company policy," Patrick said with false regret, trying to slip away from Gabe's lean, warm body. Not that it didn't feel nice, but still.

"You can!" Will shouted from over where he was talking to Jon, _again_. "You totally can, Patrick! It's Halloween, go crazy for once."

"Awesome," Gabe said with his _the-better-to-eat-you-with_ smile as Patrick contemplated the best way of killing Will and disposing of his skinny body. The imagery wasn't an accidental one either, because Patrick had been unfortunate enough to have seen Gabe's Big Bad Wolf costume, and had shot down any suggestion of being Little Red Riding Hood, leering emphasis on _Riding_ by Gabe. "You heard the boss, Patrick. Go crazy. Hey, my new friend Travis here could play something just for you."

"Anything you want, 'Trick, you know that already, man." Travis dropped Patrick a slow wink and Patrick smiled wryly in return. He had gone through four DJ's before finding and sticking with Travis, who could be a little late sometimes, but always gave a good show.

Gabe was making excited noises. " _Trick_! Holy shit, how awesome and serendipitous a nickname. So," and he squeezed Patrick a little closer, "when do I get my treat?"

Patrick's cell-phone, which had been ringing nonstop all day and had only begun to ease up a few hours ago, rang briskly in his jeans-pocket. Patrick, who usually despised the thing, it rung so fucking _much_ , dug it out eagerly.

"Sorry, Gabe," he said as he peered at the screen, finally removing himself from Gabe's clutches. "Gotta take this. But go get ready! Your guests will be here soon." Patrick did his usual scuttle, this more scuttly than usual, and continued in a low voice in his phone. "Hurley, I owe you one."

"Of course you do," Andy replied mildly, walking right by Patrick even as they spoke on the phone to each other. "I saw your Face of Doom and decided to help out a friend."

"Oh. You're going to call in the favour sooner or later, right?"

"That would be _completely_ right, Patrick. You take care now." Andy turned and grinned at him, snapping his phone shut. Patrick gave him the most sour look he could muster. He loved Andy, he really did, but he was just too slick sometimes.

"Anyway," Patrick muttered, putting his clipboard back into position as if taking up arms. "Time to party."

 

* * *

 

"Well, now, and what's a fine young boyo like you doing in a place like this?"

Patrick turned and looked at this dude dressed head-to-toe in red: red hoodie and the tightest pair of red jeans Patrick had ever seen. He didn't even know jeans that tight and red _existed_.

He had been standing at the bottom of the wide steps that led up into the main house, looking down the slope at the party. Travis was whipping the costumed revelers into a frenzy as the bonfires painted orange stripes over the entire scene. The bonfires had been Will's idea. Patrick had the Fire Department on speed-dial. In any case, it was a pretty good touch; Gabe loved it, at least.

Patrick's exhaustion was now causing his fingers to tremble a bit, especially when clenched around his pen in his intense manner, and he had been backing up towards the massive Saporta house, hoping to go sit at that lovely baby-grand they had displayed in the fancy conservatory, maybe play a little and take a little breather. He hadn't gotten the chance to play in a very long time, and he was pretty sure he was super rusty now.

And now here was this strange dude with the accent Patrick could barely fathom, grinning with teeth that seemed too large and too white. The music wasn't very loud up here, but the bass-line of the songs seemed to vibrate in the ground, up into Patrick's feet and rattle around in his bones. He felt loose and disconnected; this dude's sudden appearance at his elbow wasn't helping matters at all.

"Excuse me?" Patrick blinked at him. "Can I help you, sir?"

" _Can_ you help me?" The guy considered this, tapping his chin with one long finger thoughtfully and raising a thick dark eyebrow. The finger, like the rest of his skin, had a deep golden colour, as if he spent a lot of time frolicking in the sun. If he was one of Gabe's close friends, he probably did that a lot; Gabe seemed to be a Master of the Frolic. "You might help me, you might not, Paddy me boy, all depending on what's your fancy."

" _What_?" Patrick gaped at him and the guy hooked his thumbs in his pockets, standing there with one hip stuck out indolently, still with that huge and unsettling grin. For someone who was almost as short as Patrick, he seemed to loom. " _What_ did you call me?"

The guy looked pointedly Patrick's hair, which was probably sticking out in wild straw-like glory from under his dark cap. "Paddy. Patrick's your name, right? Unless you're wanting me to call you Podgy, and I can do that if that's what you want, but Paddy suits you real fine."

"Oh, give me a break," Patrick snapped, mocking memories of middle and high school cresting over him in a wave so annoying that he forgot he was addressing a _guest_. He actually glared at the guy. "I'm not Irish."

"You're not?" The gaze from amused brown eyes traveled from the tip of Patrick's head to the sole of his comfortable sneakers, dragging goose-bumps all along Patrick's skin in its wake. He seemed on the verge of braying out laughter. "Oh, but I can tell, you know, Patrick. You're as Irish as they come, and the Irish come _hard_ , yes they do."

"Born and raised grade-A American," Patrick refuted instantly, feeling too stubborn now to admit that he did indeed have an Irish heritage, on his mother's side; he narrowed his eyes at the guy's snide laugh. "Are you... are you on the guest-list?" He hefted his clipboard and flipped through, not caring if he seemed rude. "What's your name, sir?"

"Pete. Pete Wentz."

Patrick wanted to grit his teeth at the smug tone of his voice, and was just about to tell him that he didn't see a _Wentz_ on the guest-list, and he could just kindly clear the fuck out of this private party; but it must have been a trick of the flickering firelight, because one moment there was no _Wentz, Pete_ below _Trasker, Jennie_... and in the next moment, there _was_.

"Aye, there's me name, Paddy," this Wentz character said softly, right into Patrick's ear, the drag of his accent making _name_ sound like _knee-aim_. Patrick startled at his sudden proximity and stepped away, holding his clipboard to his chest; his eyes felt big in his head. Pete smelled like dry leaves and brisk, free air. Ridiculous; they were _outside_ , in a party that had about four huge bonfires crackling briskly. Of course he would smell that way, and it really shouldn't be giving Patrick a taut dark curl of _something_ in the pit of his stomach.

"Wentz doesn't _sound_ Irish," he muttered sullenly, feeling like a small, wayward child.

"Who said I was Irish?" Pete said in a perfectly comprehensible American accent; it was even tinged with that slightly nasal clip in his words, just like Patrick's when he was getting excitable over something and not concentrating on hiding his Illinois roots in the fast-paced city he had moved to. Patrick sputtered at him, but Pete spoke before Patrick could lambaste him properly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"What?" Patrick was getting a little tired of sounding so slow. He tightened his lips and then said, barely moving them, "I'm supposed to be the party-planner."

"Oi, that's mighty boring, Paddy." Pete switched back to his Irish brogue and Patrick was torn between feeling annoyed and amused. " _Y'are_ the party-planner, where's the fun in all that, then?"

"It's what I do. I'm too busy to pick out a costume."

"I see."

Pete's brown eyes seemed to be dancing with the firelight, even as they fixed steadily on Patrick's, calm in their hypnotic steadiness.

Patrick cleared his throat. "What are _you_ supposed to be?"

Pete smirked at him, continuing in his American accent, much to Patrick's relief. "I'm the devil, can't you tell? Only not really, but I could be, don't you think?"

"You're missing the horns," Patrick pointed out a little unkindly. Pete pouted, and Patrick was so surprised at the funny expression, that laughter bubbled up out of him. He actually blinked at this; he hadn't laughed in... in a long time. Not out loud like this.

"But seriously; I'm the Man in Red," Pete said low, his own laughing voice suddenly as smooth and dark as wine. "You _do_ know about the man in red, don't you, Pat?"

"Stick to Paddy," Patrick warned, suddenly incensed. He _hated_ that name, how _dare_ this stupid stranger in red pick up that name, which seemed to encapsulate every insecurity he had as a kid: too short, too pale, too red-haired. "Don't even start with _Pat_."

"I won't start with anything you can't finish, _Patrick_ ," the man in red said with a dangerous sliver to his voice. He stared as Patrick took a step back, his eyes drilling into Patrick's wide ones. "That's a promise."

"Right. Have fun, _Pete_ ," Patrick said coldly and turned on his heel, stalking off towards the house.

A cool wind lifted the ends of his hair, twirling them idly. Patrick stole a glance over his shoulder, stumbling a little on the uneven stone steps when he saw no-one standing there.

 

* * *

 

Patrick trailed his fingers over the keys of the baby-grand. Inside the conservatory, the noise of the party was almost completely muffled. Only that heavy bass-line, which seemed to be soaking right into the base of Patrick's brain, continued on inexorably.

The conservatory was fantastic, though; a testament to the massive Saporta wealth and penchant for displaying it. It was built in two levels; a higher section which had a level floor, decorated with colourful tiles; the piano was set near the wide, arched double-door. The lower level was a proper solarium, separated from the higher section by a few steps down and a movable screen. The screen was pulled to both sides, displaying the lush, almost wild garden. Patrick could see past the garden to a proper wood outside the high glass walls. Only people as rich as the Saportas would have an actual _forest_ on their estate.

Part of Patrick worried about the party, if it was all going fine; but most of his mind still had that same disconnected sensation that had assailed him earlier on, when that Pete guy had been talking to him.

Patrick sighed again, and played snatches of a traditional Irish song one of his aunts had taught him, letting the haunting melody float up from the keys. There was a sound, like branches scraping against glass, and Patrick spun around, gaze snapping from side to side, peering out at the gloom; but the trees closest the solarium were neatly trimmed. No branches were touching the glass, as far as he could tell.

"Patrick!" Gabe staggered in with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand. His Big Bad Wolf-head was gone, and his hair was sticking up on end. He lurched over and breathed drunkenly, "You owe me a dance, dude."

"Umm," was all Patrick had time for, before Gabe put the bottle _inside_ the open cover of the piano. Patrick opened his mouth to point out the complete uncoolness of that, when Gabe seized him by one shoulder and hauled him close.

"Hey, ho! Let's go!" Gabe howled, thrusting and writhing, knees bent so he could grind properly against Patrick's shorter frame. He spun and whirled, dragging Patrick along for the very ridiculous ride. They nearly fell down the steps into the solarium, the leaves of the tall plants pulling at their hair and clothes. Patrick tried to yank himself away, but Gabe kept pulling him deeper into the solarium, laughing all the way. Patrick felt a little nauseous, as if he was being dragged out of his own body.

"Patrick? Hey, Tricky! Where's my treat?"

Patrick, in the middle of a massive twirl, turned with wide eyes to gaze up at the higher level. Gabe was standing near the piano; his Big Bad Wolf-head was gone, and his hair was sticking up on end. He was gazing around with a puzzled expression.

Patrick felt his hair trying to crawl out of his scalp. He snapped his head around to see _who the fuck_ was holding onto him, if Gabe was standing _over there_.

Pete. Pete, the red man, had both Patrick's hands grasped in his, laughing like a loon. Patrick tried to pull away, but Pete stepped back. They were at the glass wall which separated the dark, moving night outside from the softly lit solarium.

"What the--"

"May the cat _eat_ you, Patrick," Pete said with a smile that was filled with gleeful insanity. "And may the cat be eaten by the devil."

Pete stepped back, his leg going through the glass with barely a ripple. Patrick tried to call out to Gabe, to look over here _and help_ , but he was yanked through the glass, the sensation of it terrifyingly cold as if someone had pushed him through a waterfall of ice-water.

Then, they were outside.

 

* * *

 

"No," Patrick said in a low moan as he was dragged to the dark forest. He wanted to yell and kick, to get someone to come and help him, but his voice couldn't get any louder than it was now; he felt so weak, his body shaking almost out of control. The party-goers were on the other side of the house; Patrick could hear them screaming in delight. "No, please, let me go."

He continued in his attempts to pull away, but Pete kept a firm hold on him as he dragged Patrick past the civilized fringe of controlled forest and into the wilder depths that had never seen a gardener's pruning shears. His eyes were too wide and too bright, almost glowing as he kept smiling at Patrick.

"No, let me go, let me _go_ , dammit!" Patrick had finally found his missing voice, literally shrieking at Pete and digging his heels into the leafy soil. Pete spun him again and pressed him against the gnarled trunk of the nearest tree. Patrick opened his mouth to rail at him in a very high and _very_ panicked manner, and this fucking crazy man in red _kissed_ him, hard, sharp and tasting like something wild and sweet, like berries growing in a clandestine garden.

"Should have dressed yourself like one of us, Paddy my boy," Pete whispered against his slack mouth, clutching handfuls of Patrick's black button-down shirt. Despite the chill of the forest, sweat trickled down Patrick's back. "Tonight is the night of the Thin Veil, when the dead walk and the spirits talk. If you dinna look like one of us... then you're pretty fair game, so you are!" He released Patrick, stepping away... and then he began to _fade_. He was grinning as his legs and thighs disappeared, his slim torso and shoulders dissolving into nothing, and then his face, leaving just that wide smile, Cheshire cat-like.

"Hey, ho," the disembodied smile said nastily before it too disappeared. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

Patrick spent a few long, terrible minutes plastered against the tree, his mouth tingling and his eyes nearly falling out of his head. He could hear his own breath, harsh panting that seemed so loud in the still night. One inane thought kept looping through his mind: _I had toast for breakfast this morning, and a huge cup of coffee. I have three huge events to prepare for next month. This can't be happening to me._

A thin mist was rising from the soggy ground and Patrick clamped one hand over his mouth, to prevent the hysterical laughter from crashing out of him. He fumbled in his pocket for his cell-phone, but Pete must have picked it out of his jeans or it probably fell when they were in the solarium, for it was gone.

There was a flapping noise and then a warbling cry, like the laughter of an escaped madman. Patrick jerked at the sound, nearly flinging his own glasses from his face at the creepy sound.

"It's just a loon," he muttered. "Just a bird, just a bird. Oh, _god_."

He couldn't hear anything resembling that of a large party going on. He took a deep breath and stepped forward a little, straining to see in the dark. All he could make out was the twisted shapes of the large trees and that fucking mist, which seemed to have its own noxious glow.

And singing... now he could hear someone singing.

Patrick took a deep breath and stepped towards the singing; maybe it was someone who could help him, maybe he could call the police and report this weird man in red that had probably done something to Patrick, giving him some kind of hallucinogen through skin-to-skin contact, it could _happen_ , because people just didn't make themselves look exactly like other people, nor step through solid glass, nor disappear. No. No they _couldn't_.

The methodical section of his brain was happily composing a police-report, removing itself from the stillness of the night pressing against Patrick, malevolent in its expectant gloom. The singing was louder now, and now there was laughing; suddenly, Patrick didn't want to go near whoever was laughing like that. He meant to stop in the thick brush surrounding the clearing where this fire was, but he felt something like a hand press in the middle of his back and _shove_.

Patrick flailed and stumbled, staggering into the clearing where three old women sat around a fire. There was the hugest black pot-bellied pot suspended over the fire, but what it was hanging from, Patrick couldn't see.

When he straightened and opened his mouth to ask the women for help, his _excuse me, but do one of you have a phone?_ dried up on its way out of his throat. These women shouldn't have been _alive_ ; their skin was as crinkled as old leather, eyes small and dark beneath folds of flesh. One of them was standing, hunched over as she stirred the pot, and her hands were gnarled claws, nails brown and long. They were dressed in long, shapeless robes, the hoods of which were pulled back from their ancient faces.

"Oh, my," the one stirring the pot rasped at him, smiling toothlessly. Patrick was a little bemused at how she spoke; wasn't he still in upstate New York anymore? Where did all these Irish folk come from? "What have we here?"

"I'm, uh...uh, a Patrick," Patrick stuttered, and for some reason, these three hags found him amusing. They tilted their heads back and cackled to the sky, thin white hair blowing in the cold breeze.

"A Patrick!" they shrieked and laughed again. Patrick chuckled nervously along, eyes darting around to see how fast he could pull a scuttle.

"Aye, it's a Patrick if I ever saw one," the one at the pot said. "Dana at your service, me love."

"Sorcha, that's me," one of the other women said with a sly grin.

"And Finola," the last one chimed in. "But it's been a long time we've had one of your kind around here."

"What kind is that?" Patrick asked, stepping back. Her eyes were gleaming unnaturally.

"Oh," Dana said, and gave her pot an enthusiastic stir. "The _fresh_ kind."

"So plump and pretty," Sorcha muttered and licked her dry lips.

"Look," Patrick said desperately. "Look, I just need to get out of here, and back to... back to this party--"

"But we have a party right here, Patrick!" Finola exclaimed, and in a blink she was beside him, as fast as anything, her nails digging into his upper arm as she pulled him forward. She was frightfully strong for a woman her age, and no matter how much Patrick tried to dig his heels in to the ground, she simply hauled him over to the log she and her weird sister had been perched on, pushing him down to sit between them. "A wondrous party, and you're the first guest we've had in years."

"Oh, aye," Sorcha agreed, leaning close and grinning. Patrick leaned back, trying to erase the image of her mouth out of his mind, in all its blackened, near-toothless glory. She smelled sickly sweet, a scent like rotting meat covered with flowers rising from her clothes. "We've a lovely main course tonight, sweet Patrick. So very lovely." She took one of his hands, and stroked it, crooning. Patrick snatched it away, feeling panic rise up in him.

"How did you get to be here, sweet, sweet Patrick?" Dana asked, sipping from her massive wooden spoon and smacking her lips. "So many of your kind dare not cross the Thin Veil on a night like this."

"A man in red," Patrick mumbled, now leaning away from Finola, who had taken a lock of his hair and was sniffing at it. "A fucking man in red."

The three women laughed again, cackling with the fitful breeze. Patrick wanted to curl up in himself and wake the hell up from whatever weird dream this was.

"Oh!" Dana cried, holding her side as she wheezed. "Oh, it's been so long since the Red Man brought a nice fresh one to us."

"Such a pretty, pretty Patrick," Finola murmured.

"And he smells right lovely," Sorcha muttered, now pressing her nose to his shoulder. "It's no wonder our Red Man took him, isn't it?"

"The Red Man just doesn't take anyone, you know that, Patrick?" Dana said, pulling out the longest, most dangerous-looking knife Patrick had ever _seen_. It glinted in the firelight. "He only takes the very best."

"Wait!" Patrick felt the hags' hands clamp over his, holding him down as Dana approached with her knife. He struggled, and a dragonfly landed on his shoulder, its wings burnished red by the light of the fire; Patrick swore he could hear a little, rasping voice say: _the sisters like a voice as sweet as the sun, my love_.

Ok, three old women were trying to _kill_ him and maybe eat him and a dragonfly was giving him entertainment advice. Awesome; Patrick was going to get therapy just as soon as he found his way out of this fucking forest.

"Wait, wait," he croaked. "If... ok, if this is a party, then don't we need some, uh, some entertainment?"

Dana stopped and thoughtfully licked the sharp edge of her knife. A thin line of blood was left on it when she moved it away; Patrick felt sick at the sight of it. "What kind of entertainment?"

"A little bit of singing, maybe?" Patrick offered in a strangled voice. He hadn't sang since he was in high school, and not even much then; but he had a passable voice, he supposed. "I mean... ok, yeah, singing."

"Oh, _singing_ ," Finola said in an eager tone. "A fine song sweetens the stomach, so it does."

"Go on, tasty little one." Dana's smile was as sharp as her knife, but at least _that_ wasn't raised as high as was a few moments ago. "A song for supper, lovely Patrick."

Patrick cleared his throat and started on a croak so awful, and the three crones laughed in their terrible, cackling way. The dragonfly buzzed up from his shoulder, as if in surprise, but settled back down when Patrick's voice smoothed out and he sang _American Pie_ , because that was the very first song that came to his frazzled brain.

"I haven't the foggiest what a Chevy or a levee is," Finola said dreamily, her grasp on Patrick's arm loosening.

"But whiskey and rye, yes, we know those," Sorcha finished, and tittered quietly.

"Sing it again, lovely!" Dana demanded and her knife fell from her hands, sticking handle-up in the ground. She sat on the ground, pulling her hood over her head, casting her face into shadow. "One more time."

Patrick sang it again, barely daring to hope as Sorcha, then Finola pulled their hoods over their heads as well, folding their hands in their sleeves as Patrick sang for his life. They were completely still, even when Patrick stopped singing, gazing at each of them as he bit his lip.

 _the dark sisters can't resist a song made of light, Paddy my love_ , that same voice whispered in his ear as Patrick gingerly rose from between them. _if you were a singer in your own time and place, you'd sing the stones to tears. as it is, patrick, you've sang these strange sisters into stone._

"Could you fuck off?" Patrick hissed, rising to his feet gingerly. "Leave me alone or help me, stop fucking around." He suddenly felt as if the party he had arranged was miles and miles away, maybe taking place in the Sahara. He felt tired and lonely, not an unusual set of emotions for Patrick, who worked hard to have everything in his life neatly arranged, a trait that extended to his job; but he'd never felt this shaky before. Yet, for some reason, he felt more... alive. He could almost hear his blood rushing enthusiastically through his veins.

 _this is why i like you, patrick_ , the voice hummed contentedly and the dragonfly, its wings flashing like slivers of rubies, rose from his shoulder and flashed across the fire. _you're a feisty one, you are_.

"Wait!" Patrick yelled, not wanting to be left alone with the now-silent sisters, not even by a strange dragonfly. He raced around the fire, hardly scuttling even in his haste and plunged into the dark forest. He could hear wings of the dragonfly, zipping and whirring through the trees and the long muscles in his legs screamed in pain from the sudden frantic use. A branch caught at the back of his shirt; Patrick cried out in surprise, turning to unhook himself from the hand-like branch; as he hauled his shirt away from the grappling branch, he overbalanced and fell backwards.

...and right into an open grave.

Nearly all the air had gone out of him when he had fallen on his back, so he had nothing at all in his lungs to let out a shout of fright when he realized that just because this was an open grave, didn't mean it was _empty_. A thin scream managed to emanate, though, when Patrick turned his head so slowly and saw the grinning skull facing him, dressed in a decaying veil, a bride of death.

The jaw of the skull moved, dust crumbling from the hinge of the jaw, and Patrick stood up in the coffin so fast, his head spun. The fucking skeleton was fucking _sitting up_ , reaching out towards Patrick, who kicked out at it and scrambled at the sides of the grave. Something cold and dry wrapped around his ankle and Patrick didn't even look down; he reached up as far as his height would allow, and gripped the grassy edge; as he hauled himself up, he swore, he honestly swore that he'd lose at least ten pounds.

At least.

A muscle twinged in his back as he flung one foot over and rolled out and over, nearly tumbling right into another open grave. He staggered to his feet, feeling drunk on adrenaline and fear. Risking a look behind, he saw the dead bride's bony hand creeping out of her grave.

Patrick ran like fuck.

He'd never ran like fuck before, it was quite a novel experience. Event planners didn't really race around a lot. He barely noticed that the graveyard was massive, stretching forward as far as the eye could see. There were far too many open graves though, he damn well noticed _that_ , yawning like hungry mouths.

Then, Patrick spotted someone walking ahead, ambling casually past the broken headstones. The man in red.

"Fucker!" Patrick screamed and he didn't know he had it in him, but he picked up speed like a freight train. "Motherfucking fucker!"

Pete turned around, and Patrick was about to attempt a move he'd seen on the WWF, like a flying kick to the chest or something; he drew up short and fell on his ass, gaping up at the Red Man's face, which seemed to have all the skin flayed from it. The eyes were milky orbs that rolled in that ruin that contained no nose, cheekbones jutting out of the bloody flesh.

"Hello, Patrick," the monstrosity in red said wetly. "Having fun?"

Patrick shrieked and a very distant part of his mind went, _oooh that's a nice high c, good job, vocal cords_ , and he tried to scramble back; but the man in red advanced on him, kneeling between his open legs. A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and Patrick wanted to scream again as the red man's face came so near.

He gagged as the red man's lips pressed against his, spongy and slimy and Patrick shuddered, clenching his eyes tightly.

"Open your eyes," Pete said softly a moment later. Patrick shook his head, flinching as he felt a soft touch against his cheek. "Patrick. Look at me."

Breathing hard, Patrick cracked open one eye and nearly cried in relief as he saw a normal face gazing down at him. Pete stroked his cheek, even more gently.

"So very brave," he murmured and kissed Patrick again.

 _Dude_ , a very concerned inner-Patrick said gravely, as Patrick let the red man kiss him, even groaning a little under the assault. _um. you're making out with an agent of supernatural forces here. In a cemetery. I'm not sure if this is such a great idea._

 _I nearly got eaten by some witches and a dead bride_ , the part ruled by his dick pointed out petulantly; he was surprised to find himself aching in his jeans. _I deserve some method of compensation._

"You're beautiful," Pete was muttering as he rubbed against Patrick, hot and hard against him, and he felt solid and _real_.

"No," Patrick moaned, almost automatically. "No, don't mock me."

Pete froze above him. There was a cracking, _shuddering_ sound, like breaking glass, and Pete sighed heavily, moving from atop him. Patrick went up on his elbows and looked around cautiously; no graveyard. No mist. Just a quiet forest and if he wasn't mistaken, he could see a faint glow just ahead, and he could hear music.

"What are you," Patrick whispered faintly as Pete brushed at his clothes. Pete shrugged.

"Just someone having a bit of fun." Pete gave him a sidelong look, his cheeks moving up in a smile.

"A bit of fun? A bit of _fun_?! You asshole, you... you nearly killed me!"

"Humans," Pete said dismissively. "They just don't have a sense of humour. It's really sad."

Patrick lunged after him, grabbing Pete around his waist and bringing him to the ground. He was going to beat the _shit_ out of him, but Pete laughed and arched up and then Patrick was simply holding onto an empty red hoodie, still warm from Pete's body.

A dragonfly buzzed around and Patrick swatted after it angrily.

 _You're beautiful_ , Pete's voice whispered from nearly all directions at once. _I lie about many things, my sweet, but I don't lie about things like that. I'll see you again next year, when the veil has gone thin again._

Patrick blinked; he was kneeling on the leafy ground, his hands pressed against the tops of his thighs. There was a stitch in his side a little bigger than the Grand Canyon, and he felt like there was about a ton of dirt clinging to his jeans and shirt. He tilted his head back, staring at the quiet stars.

It was a long time before he struggled to his feet and staggered back to the party.

 

* * *

 

 _One year later_

Patrick strummed his guitar and squinted against the spotlight, smiling faintly at the cheers and applause.

"Thanks," he said into the microphone. "Thank you. And hey, since it's Halloween, I suppose I have to do something frightening."

"You already did!" Someone yelled; it sounded like Joe, that fucker. Patrick flipped the bird in his general direction, and the crowd stuffed in the bar laughed.

"Let me take a break, and then we'll get back to the scary stuff." Patrick set down his guitar and nodded at the pianist, who winked back at him as she played a sweet melody. Joe and Will immediately pounced at him as he made his way to the bar.

"Patrick!" Will yelled, flinging his arm around Patrick's shoulder. "That was great!"

"Oh yeah," Joe agreed. "And, dude, you look so much more relaxed. Being a bum in a bar suits you."

Will elbowed him, but Patrick grinned, not caring one bit. After his... strange psychotic break last year (that's what the therapist called it), Patrick had taken two weeks' vacation and started to think. He thought long and hard about what he was happy doing, what he really _wanted_ to do; then he had had a little music-biz-based talk with Travis before handing in his resignation, much to Will's exclamations of dismay.

"You still have Andy," Patrick had pointed out.

"I know!" Will's pout had remained fixed on his face. "But he's so... so _sly_."

Patrick hadn't looked back since then. He'd never been happier, and it showed. He scuttled less and smiled more, and he'd even been a couple of dates, something he never had the time for before. Sometimes, he thought about the man in red. His big smile and sharp brown eyes. And his promise.

Patrick shook his head and excused himself, stopping ever so often to talk to people sitting at tables and at the bar; many insisted on shaking his hand and complimenting his voice. He blushed every time, still not used to it, and sighed when he finally got the bathroom.

One of the long fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered as he pushed inside; he gave it a cursory glance, heading for the urinals to take care of business. The bar's noises was so muffled in here, he almost couldn't hear them. Patrick shook off, tucked in properly and made his way to the sink. The light buzzed noisily above him as he scrubbed his hands, and he froze as a cool breath tickled the back of his neck.

"Patrick," a low voice rasped in his ear; Patrick closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling hands grip at his hips, a soft mouth brushing against the curve of his neck.

"Pete," he murmured and felt himself being pulled; he stepped backwards, not resisting the tugging. He didn't think it would help if he resisted.

Besides, he... he really didn't want to.

"Are you ready?" Pete whispered, and licked Patrick's ear. "I won't try and scare you to death this time. Or maybe I will. I haven't made up my mind, not yet. I can't seem to when it comes to you. The bride and the dark sisters, they miss you sorely, so they have. And so have I."

Patrick turned around in the circle of Pete's arms, dreading that he would see that destroyed face; but Pete's eyes, which featured in every dream Patrick had found himself in for the past year now, were wide and clear. His mouth, which replaced every lover's mouth in Patrick's head, was quirked up at one side, amused and patient.

"Okay," is all he replied. What else could he say?

"Hey, ho," the man in red sang softly, walking Patrick backwards in a strange waltz, pressing him against a wall; then they both seemed to melt right _through_ it. "Let's go."

**Author's Note:**

> Pete is based on the _far darrig_ :  
> The far darrig (or fear dearg) is a near relation to the leprechaun, with similar features and a short stocky body. His face is splotched yellow. He dresses in red from his hat to his tail-trailing cape to the woolen stockings which cling to his calves. This is the reason he is called the far darrig or red man.
> 
> He is known not only for his color (sometimes he travels invisibly) but for his delight in mischief and mockery. He can be a gruesome practical joker. He manipulates his voice, emitting sounds like the thudding waves on the rocks or the cooing of pigeons. His favorite is the dull, hollow laugh of a dead man; which he makes sound as if it's coming from the grave. He has also been know to give evil dreams.
> 
> Mortal terror amuses the far darrig. Occasionally, he invites a mortal to enter a lonely bog hut, then he orders him to make dinner out of a hag skewered on a spit. The man usually faints. When he recovers, he finds himself alone with the sound of laughter filling the air, but coming from no distinguishable source. It is advisable to say ' _Na dean maggadh fum_ '-- do not mock me', when you encounter a far darrig, that way you cannot be used in one of his macabre games. Unfortunately, he plans his tricks so well that a mortal is snared long before he realizes the need to protest.
> 
> With all his pranks, the far darrig desires not to do harm but to show favor. He actually is good-natured and will bring luck to those whom he approves; but he cannot resist a preliminary teasing.  
> -[source](http://members.tripod.com/pg4anna/red.htm)


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